


The Princess and the Pea

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: Penis PJ Verse [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, painter!Flint, sugar daddy!Silver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: John Silver is a spoiled billionaire whose personal assistant, Muldoon, thinks he can't wipe his own ass.  James Flint is an artist who'd never sell his outdated work were it not for his friend Eleanor, the gallery owner.  That's it; that's the fic.This is technically a prequel toOne Gaudy Bauble.





	The Princess and the Pea

**Author's Note:**

> It would behoove everyone to remember that [this look](http://jadedbirch.tumblr.com/post/164808357080/hokkaidosaplus-blog-luke-arnold-wearing-versace) exists.

It was Monday morning, and John Silver simply did not do Mondays. It was a problem with a very simple solution. Many museums were closed on Mondays, and so was John Silver. That way, he never had to deal with a “case of the Mondays”, or whatever it was the hoi polloi were constantly whinging about.

He was sprawled in his California King bed, chewing on a Cuban rather than smoking it. He loved the feel of a fatty as he rolled it between his fingers, the tobacco leaves making those soft crunch-crunch sounds against each other. His stomach growled, announcing that his indentured servant… er… personal assistant was late with his brunch. Silver put his iPad aside, and shifted higher against his myriad of pillows. He could just text Muldoon, of course, but yelling was so much more satisfying.

“Starving up here!” he hollered.

As if by sheer magical force, his bedroom door flew open, allowing in the familiar bald head of Muldoon, carrying a silver tray.

“Sorry, sir. Would hate for sir to starve to death.” His assistant rushed to Silver’s side, throwing a napkin over his chest and placing the tray across his lap. “If sir was dead, how would I ever pay my bills?” he added in passing and pointed cheerfully towards to spread. “Toad in the hole!” Muldoon pronounced with a flourish. “Cooked over easy, just the way sir likes it. Runny. Side of apple smoked bacon, extra crispy. Organic strawberries, delivered fresh from the local farm this morning.”

“Muldoon, we live in New York.”

“That is why they cost roughly an arm and a leg per pound, sir.”

“What was that you were muttering about… bills?” Silver scrunched up his face and adjusted the napkin over his naked chest. He was not exactly sure what it was intended to protect, except possibly Muldoon’s modesty.

“Not all of us were born with a _silver_ spoon in our mouths, sir.”

“You little ingrate,” Silver huffed, “I bought you the good health insurance, didn’t I? None of that Obamacare for you. PPO.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. You are the veritable epitome of magnanimity.”

“Damn right,” Silver nodded, popping a strawberry into his mouth. It burst against his tongue, flooding his senses with sweetness. “D’you have that list for me?” He poked at the egg inside the toast and admired the way the yolk spread slowly across his plate.

“List, sir?”

“Mhm,” Silver prodded with his mouth full. “Of the art galleries?”

“Oh yes,” Muldoon pursed his lips, as if attempting to suppress a smile. Impertinent bastard was having impertinent thoughts, Silver suspected. “I know you would like to purchase something modern and edgy.”

“Not too edgy,” Silver shrugged. “I wanna be able to still actually _look_ at it.”

“I know _just_ what sir means,” Muldoon pronounced and whipped his mobile out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “I’m emailing you a short list I’ve compiled of places that might have… art… that is to your liking.”

“Muldoon, you’re a lifesaver,” Silver sighed contentedly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Is sir proposing again?”

Silver grinned and stuffed egg-soaked toast into his mouth to fill the awkward silence. Muldoon was cute, even if he was technically “the help.” But he wasn’t packing enough heat for Silver, who would be the first man to admit to being a massive fucking size queen, and without any shame on the topic either. He wasn’t going to apologize for having a type, and that this type was men with big, fat cocks.

“Now, I know you’d probably forgotten because you only care about yourself…”

“Hey!” Silver might be filthy rich but he did have feelings!

“...but you’d promised me the rest of the day off today. Logan is taking me on a date to Fire Island.”

“Wow, how gay,” Silver snorted. Muldoon remained stoically unmoved. “I mean, sure, sure, go to Fire Island with your very gay boyfriend. I’ll go check these galleries out by myself.”

“The car service’s number is programmed into your phone, and the Uber app is the one with the U…”

“Get out of here!” Silver brushed him off while Muldoon fussed like a mother hen over the remnants of his brunch. “I know how to use my own damned phone, Jesus!”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Muldoon shook his head with desperation. “Sir is so poorly formed for normal, everyday, human life… Sometimes I wonder how you manage to go to the toilet without me holding your cock for you.”

“Quit hitting on me and get out,” Silver chuckled, handing the tray back to Muldoon. He was a grown man, perfectly capable of calling a Goober. Uber? Whatever.

***

James Flint was pretty sure the only reason Eleanor even invited him to participate in her latest exhibit was because they had been friends. Or at least he thought that’s what they were, being as she most often referred to him as “my gay dad.” She was fifteen years his junior, and he had stopped questioning the youths long ago.

Perhaps she had invited him out of pity, her own reputation be damned. He knew, he fucking _knew_ his pieces weren’t hip enough to be displayed at Gallerie Guthrie. Maybe at the Walrus, his local bar, where he figured the bathroom walls could use a bit of sprucing up. Not that he thought his paintings were only good for pissing next to, but he had been told they had a rather relaxing effect on the senses. Perhaps then his art could help to relax one’s sphincter after a few drinks.

Why was he like this? Why was he drinking alone in the corner of his friend’s gallery when he should’ve been rubbing elbows with the local glitterati? Why was he monologuing inside his own head in Eleanor’s fucking voice? Oh…

“Do you see that guy?” Eleanor had sidled up to Flint, sipping daintily from a champagne flute.

“Which one?” he scanned the room.

“Floral pants. Gorgeous.”

There was, admittedly, only one such person in the room with them, and Flint’s keen artistic eye found him immediately. Then he snorted. The entire floral pants and tan sweater combo were ridiculous enough, but the Versace sunglasses still covering the man's eyes really brought the ludicrous look together.

“Jesus… how much do you have to be worth to not give that much of a fuck how you look?” He clinked his glass against Eleanor’s. “To having good taste. Now, what about him?”

“That’s John Silver, the heir and inheritor of Silver Enterprises.”

“How much do you think those fugly pants cost?” Flint could not, in good artistic conscience, tear his eyes away. If they happened to stray upwards, to the wild curls and lush lips, well then, he could not be blamed.

“I’m going to fleece him,” Eleanor said.

“What even?”

“Look at him! He’s begging to have his wallet lightened. Any man who thought it was a good idea to roll out of the house looking like _that_ is clearly asking to be taken advantage of. I bet I could ask him to pay double the listed price on any of these, and he would not even blink.”

Flint chuckled. “Yeah, he might even buy one of _my_ paintings.”

“If you hate your own work so much, why do you keep creating it?” Eleanor leaned against the wall, her own blond hair brushing against the russet of Flint’s.

“I like the sea,” Flint shrugged avoiding her searching gaze.

“There isn’t much business out here in seascapes,” Eleanor sighed. “But it’s more than old fashioned,” she continued, “There’s something visceral about your seascapes. Something so…”

“Lonely?” Flint supplied.

“Yes,” she agreed, her eyes glued to Flint’s most recent work: a seascape in grays and blues, with turbulent tides, and a single, barely perceptible sail paling in the distance. “It’s the boats. Why do you always paint the boats this way?”

“To invoke the existential loneliness that is the human condition,” Flint explained, taking his own work in.

“Existential loneliness?”

Flint and Eleanor startled by the soft purr of a stranger’s voice. It was Floral Pants, standing right next to him, and gazing peacefully into Flint’s eyes, sunglasses now perched on top of his nest of curls. Flint almost leaned forward because - whatever Eleanor said his name was - his eyes were an uncanny shade of blue. Flint immediately wanted to paint them.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Silver, you were saying?” Eleanor shoved Flint’s shoulder.

“Did you paint this?” Silver asked, his eyes scanning down Flint’s body and fixating rather crudely on the bulge of his jeans.

“I did,” Flint replied, returning the favor and fixing his own eyes upon the flower-bedecked crotch of Silver’s pants.

“What did you mean by the existential loneliness that is the human condition?” Silver asked, his gaze traveling back up and meeting Flint’s. Flint swallowed and lazily dragged his tongue along his upper lip.

“Only that in the end, we are all on this journey alone,” he replied.

“How profound,” Silver uttered.

“Isn’t it?” Eleanor chimed in. “You know, James… This is James Flint, by the way… James paints the sea like no other. I’m amazed at the hues he is able to bring out in the waves, the way the water seems to fold on itself, how it swells, why… it is almost sexual, don’t you think?”

“I do love the sea,” Silver stated, barely looking at the painting and staring roughly between Flint’s clavicles.

“What are you wearing?” Flint said, unable to hold himself back.

“Excuse me?”

Eleanor stepped on Flint’s foot, but he was man enough to take it. “What are you wearing?” he repeated. “Those pants are…”

“Outstanding,” Eleanor interrupted. “Are they Dolce?”

“Gucci,” Silver corrected. “Don’t ask me what they cost.”

“We won’t,” Flint and Eleanor answered in unison.

“If you ask my assistant, he’d tell you that I am incapable of dressing myself. Well, I think I did perfectly fine without his help today,” Silver prattled on.

Flint squinted. What this guy for real?

“Do you have any more of these, by the way?” Silver asked, pointing at the seascape.

“Oh yes, James paints seascapes _exclusively_ ,” Eleanor chimed in. “He’s very avant garde.”

“Doesn’t avant garde mean the vanguard?” Silver chewed his lips. “This seems more retro to me.”

“It’s so retro, that it’s radical again,” Eleanor bullshat without even blushing. Flint would’ve been duly impressed had he not been simultaneously mortified.

“Doesn’t matter, I love it,” Silver beamed, his azure eyes flashing brightly. “I’ll take this one, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Flint stated and nearly fell over. Luckily, the wall was still behind him.

***

Silver hated the fucking sea. He hated the sea and he sure as shit hated seascapes. The owner of Gallerie Guthrie had pegged him for a rich philistine, which was fine. As his old college bud Rackham often said: to be underestimated is an incredible gift. It was easier to pretend to be the airheaded, neurotic billionaire, rather than let on that you knew exactly what the fuck avant garde actually meant. And it did not mean seascapes filled with existential boat angst, or whatever.

But. Then Silver saw James Flint, followed immediately by James Flint’s cock. Well, he had not technically _seen_ the cock, more like sensed it from beyond the confines of that crude zipper. Flint dressed to the right. The gravitational pull of the heat he was packing was intense and irresistible and robbed Silver of all higher functions.

“I hope to be able to see and buy more of your works,” he found himself saying. “Do you have a studio that you usually work out of?”

“He does,” the owner of the gallery, whose name suddenly escaped Silver, offered enthusiastically. “Let me give you the info.”

“I’m…” Flint began to flail visibly, which somehow just endeared him to Silver more.

“Great,” Silver said quickly, handing the woman his phone, “just put the info in there.”

“It’s really not a viewing space,” the ginger wet dream protested to no avail.

“Oh, I prefer it this way,” Silver replied with what he hoped was his most reassuring and not at all salacious smile. “Watching the artists _in situ_ is so much more organic.”

Despite what Muldoon and this woman probably thought, Silver wasn’t an actual idiot. He knew that he had overpaid for the dubious masterpiece, but if it turned out to be a stepping stone towards getting into the delicious painter’s tightly fitting pants, well then he would gladly become a patron of the arts.

Flint’s studio had been in the East Village, in a spartan walk-up that Silver practically sprang up towards, taking two stairs at a time.

  
“I brought wine,” Silver declared, cheerfully handing his reluctant host a bottle of Chateau Margaux. It was the 2015 vintage, nothing actually fancy, mind you. You know, under a thousand bucks.

“You shouldn’t have,” Flint frowned at the label. “I don’t even have a wine rack.”

“We can drink it right now,” Silver suggested, enjoying a little more than was seemly the way Flint practically choked. “Really, it’s no big deal, I have several of these at home, if you’d like to see how it tastes the next year… or the year after that.” Too much? Oh well. “Do you have glasses?”

“This is a Premier Grand Cru,” Flint muttered, rummaging through his cabinets, presumably in search of a corkscrew.

“You know your wines?”

“I know that a Premier Grand Cru means really fucking good.”

_God, your ass is a Premier Grand Cru,_ Silver thought rather thirstily, unable to tear his eyes away from the aforementioned gorgeous body part while Flint’s back was to him. His back, speaking of which, was also rather nice. Those lats would feel spectacular clinging on to while he plowed Silver with that enormous cock. Silver licked his lips in optimistic anticipation.

“Care to do the honors?” Flint turned around, brandishing a corkscrew far too close to his magnificent crotch.

“Me?” Silver tittered. “Oh no, I wouldn’t know how to do it properly.”

“What? Open a bottle?” Flint blinked. Silver blinked back. “All right.” Flint looked about to go for it, but his hands merely hovered over the counter. “Don’t you want to see my paintings first?”

Silver wondered if that was a welcome or a warning.

“If that’s what you’d like me to do,” he responded tentatively. “I don’t wish to interfere with your artistic process.”

Silver cocked his head to the side, waiting for Flint to speak or move, or actually open the bottle. Perhaps to tell him to get out. It didn’t normally take him this much effort to get laid. Perhaps he should’ve gone for a more expensive vintage.

“I don’t normally have visitors here,” Flint replied, mulling each word over as if it physically hurt him to speak.

“So, I’m special then,” Silver treated him to a wide smile.

“Well, a bit _less_ special, now that you’ve changed out of those ridiculous floral pants,” the artist replied with a magnificent smile, just this side of shy. Silver’s heart clenched in his chest. He did not recall ever being insulted in so charming a way before.

“Hey now, those pants cost me almost as much as one of your paintings.”

“Really? Then Eleanor gave you a steep discount.”

“Liar,” Silver laughed, nervously shoving his hands into the pockets of his Escada Couture jeans. “I’m going to buy three more of them,” Silver added.

“What? Those hideous pants?”

“No, you asshole. Your paintings!”

Flint snickered and looked out the window. “You must really love the sea.”

Silver licked his lips and took a step closer. “Never more so than at this moment,” he said, his voice dropping to a throaty whisper.

“You always this forward?” his lovely conquest asked, meeting Silver’s gaze. Flint’s eyes had been a gorgeous shade of green, soothing like misty meadows on a summer day.

“I just know when I see something I like.”

“We’re not talking about my paintings anymore, are we?”

That beard was incredibly well-groomed for a man living la vie bohème. Silver wanted to rub his entire face against it. Even through the russet thicket, Silver could still make out the delectable swell of Flint’s lower lip, and it made him take another tentative step forward.

“Your paintings are beautiful,” he said. “They make me want to go on a sea voyage. To feel the waves undulating beneath me, carrying me off into unknown depths.”

“It can be terrifying, the sea.” Flint’s mouth moved and Silver could’ve sworn that his eyes had fallen to his own lips.

“I’m not afraid of it,” Silver said, letting his hand gently cradle the back of Flint’s neck. “Are you?”

***

The truth was, Flint was afraid. Of the sea, of the vastness of it, of how easy it was to drown in it, of what lay beneath the surface. Only a fool was not afraid of the unknown.

Silver’s eyes too held hidden depths, in the cerulean swirl of them. The way they were so perfectly set in his face, like stars on a cloudless sky in the early hours of dusk. There were secrets and promises hidden in the corners of his mouth. Soft whispers of the summer breeze lived in the curls of his hair. He was enchanting like the Elf King, who had stepped off the fairytale’s page to ensnare him, and drag him kicking and screaming into his magical realm, where he would be forced to dance for Silver’s amusement for all eternity.

And he had brought Chateau Margaux. Flint was not sure he’d ever consumed enough wine to equal the monetary value of that bottle alone.

And Flint… Well, Flint was on the wrong side of forty and with nary an accomplishment to show for it, except that he had still been alive and making a living in one of the most expensive cities in the world doing what he loved. What did he have to lose by gaining a young and willing benefactor? If only for the night.

Perhaps his pride. But if Silver looked that good in stupid floral print pants, Flint had to imagine he’d look damn stupendous out of them.

So, he wrapped his fist around the folds of Silver’s (incredibly soft) oversized jumper and pulled, until their lips touched. They should’ve had the fucking expensive wine first, because Flint found himself trembling, at the softness of Silver’s lips, their warmth, the way his fingers curled just right over the vertebrae of his neck and pressed underneath his hairline, the way Silver’s breath was minty fresh (he’d clearly come prepared), and how his mouth fit so effortlessly with Flint’s own. That little moan that escaped Silver and tickled the back of Flint’s throat.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Silver breathed against his lips. “I need to taste you.”

And before Flint knew what was happening, he was being pushed up against the wall, while Silver was dropping to his knees, then and there, and pressing his face against the rapidly growing bulge of Flint’s cock as it strained against his zipper.

“Please let me,” Silver mouthed against the material of Flint’s jeans. The heat of his mouth was already making Flint’s knees buckle and he hadn’t even gotten his cock out yet.

“Knock yourself out,” Flint finally responded, eyes widening at the sinful sight before him. Jesus, what had he done in a previous lifetime to deserve this? Because he sure as shit hadn’t merited it based on his current existence.

Silver’s hands ran up the backs of his thighs, grasping and kneading the globes of his ass, while Silver’s face pressed once more into his crotch, mouth making the front of his fly moist. Silver pulled the zipper down with his teeth, grinning complacently as he did so. Flint wasn’t going to wait to get cock-teased a moment longer, so he aided matters along by whipping his cock out and dangling it before Silver’s hungry gaze.

“Is this what Your Highness came all the way to the East Village for?” he asked with a tad more bravado than he truly felt.

Silver looked up at Flint, the blues of his eyes reduced to the thinnest circles around the onyx of his dilated pupils. “Fuck yes,” he exhaled, licking his tempting lips. Then he leaned forward and placed a soft, almost reverent kiss on the tip of Flint’s cock, making both the cock and Flint twitch in anticipation.

The next moment, Silver’s mouth had engulfed Flint, hot and wicked like the very flames of Hell, and Flint bucked forward despite himself, hand coming to grasp at the wild mane of curls bobbing before him as Silver went to town on him like a starved man. Impressed at the spoiled, rich brat’s ability to take him, Flint tightened his fingers around the soft curls beneath his hand, his other hand pressed into the wall for more purchase. Silver’s moans reverberated obscenely through his throbbing cock, sending wave after wave of wild pleasure up his spine.

“Oh god,” Flint moaned himself, his eyes rolling into his skull, “Yes, fuck… suck it… Oh god, I wanna fuck you.”

Silver’s enthusiastic groan was an open invitation, as far as Flint could tell. The things Silver was doing with his tongue had surely been taught to him by some kind of Gay Kama Sutra. And Flint liked to think he wasn’t half bad at sucking cock himself.

“Jesus… how are you so good at that?” Flint bit out, then shoved his cock deeper down Silver’s throat lest he be tempted to actually answer the question. Silver didn’t even gag, merely closed his eyes and swallowed expertly around Flint’s length, his hand wrapping tightly around the base to compensate for what wouldn’t quite fit into his mouth. “God, you look amazing like this,” Flint rambled, “on your knees for me, sucking my fat cock like you’re born to it.”

Silver’s eyelids fluttered in contentment and he pulled off with a soft slurp. “If I let you come, do you promise to still fuck me?”

Flint anticipated a micro-heart-attack. “If you give me a fucking minute to recover,” he gasped.

Silver grinned up at him and his eyelashes lowered over his beautiful eyes again. “Fair,” he stated simply, before returning to devouring Flint’s cock. It did not take long before Flint was screaming out his pleasure, spilling down Silver’s throat while his head hit the wall behind him hard enough to probably sprout a bump.

He slowly sank down to the floor, without bothering to put his dick away. Didn’t Silver say he’d have immediate need for it again? Silver, who was already on the floor, merely wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and crawled into his lap, practically all a-purr and nuzzling into Flint’s neck with a look of blissful contentment. Flint’s hands came up, carding through the thick curls, kind of loving the way they slid against his fingers, like the beads of some kind of a sexual rosary.

“Should I call you John?” Flint asked, his nose buried in the soft curls. Silver’s hair smelled of almond butter.

“What the hell else were you planning on calling me? Sugar Daddy?”

“You’re a brat,” Flint chuckled, wrapping his arms around Silver’s soft sweater.

***

Silver woke up with a pleasant soreness in all his limbs. His ass felt, and he did not use this word lightly, fucking _raw_. He vaguely recalled drifting off to sleep, fucked out and still half-drunk from the high of Flint’s body, with his head pillowed on one of Flint’s thighs as he gave that beautiful cock (now spent and soft) a kiss goodnight.

Slowly, memories of the night before began to flood his mind, so vividly that he could almost feel the girth of Flint, slowly fucking into him while his mouth worried at the flushed skin of Silver’s neck. Yes, the sheets still smelled of their combined semen and sweat. Silver turned, burying his nose in the pillow next to him. The entire bed still smelled of Flint. His hand twitched towards his cock and found it already hard again. He whined softly into the pillowcase and resigned himself to the fact that he was doomed to always be sporting an erection when in Flint’s vicinity.

Eventually, his ears picked up the sounds of soft humming and he rubbed sleep out of his eyes, propping himself up and carefully lowering his feet to the floor. It was cold and didn’t appear to have any rugs. Silver made a mental note to purchase a nice, Persian one, if only for the sake of his own delicate feet.

Flint’s studio had also turned out to be Flint’s apartment. Silver should not have been so shocked and appalled by this development, especially because Muldoon was constantly reminding him of how the other half lived.

“I do not think you’re sufficiently equipped, sir,” the annoyance had fussed over him the day before. “I shudder to think, what if sir gets thirsty and the artist only has _tap water_?” Silver had reassured Muldoon that if he got thirsty, he could always drink the Chateau Margaux, a statement that Muldoon stunningly did not find reassuring.

Regardless, Flint deserved better than this, and if allowed, Silver’s new life goal was to spoil him to the full extent of his evergreen trust fund.

Silver followed the sounds of humming to the next room, which was well lit by the sun streaming in through large corner windows. Silver’s first thought was that he had finally made it to the “studio” part of the studio. His second thought was that Flint was painting… entirely in the nude. Every single freckle was on glorious display, illuminated by the soft rays of sunlight. He was slightly slouched over the large canvas, holding a palette in one hand and several brushes in the other. Silver wanted to fall to his knees and worship that ass and those thighs again at close proximity. His tongue throbbed with the memory of the taste of that skin, overcome with a bout of nostalgia so strong that it gnawed at his insides. It was by far the most perfect sight he’d ever beheld and it made him want to weep for having this nearly religious experience.

At last, he resigned himself to speech. “Do you always paint in the nude?”

Flint whipped around, his face radiating a gorgeous smile that reached all the way up to the crinkles of his eyes. “Good morning, Highness! Were you able to sleep well despite the pea under the mattress?”

“Uh-huh,” Silver uttered, struck dumb by the vision of Flint’s distinctly artistic painting practices, this time from the _front_. God help him, he had an unquenchable thirst. Muldoon had been right; he was not adequately prepared.

“I do not normally paint in the nude, no,” Flint continued to speak while smiling beatifically. “But I was sensationally inspired this morning, to the point where I could not be bothered with clothes. And besides, this way I don’t have to worry about getting paint on my things.”

By his “things” Flint clearly did not mean his body, since Silver noticed a streak of blue across his chin and another swash of green just below his left nipple. His heart fluttered like a butterfly hatching from it's cocoon.

“I wish somebody would paint you painting,” he admitted, returning Flint’s smile.

“You can take a picture for reference,” Flint laughed.

“Really?”

“No, you idiot.”

Silver came closer, wrapping his arms around Flint’s back and placing his head on a freckle-spattered shoulder blade. Flint was solid and warm and he still smelled vaguely of their coupling. Over the ridge of his shoulder, Silver could make out yet another seascape, but unlike the one he’d purchased at Gallerie Guthrie, this one had much more vivid bursts of azure and viridian. The sea throbbed with life upon the canvas, one could almost imagine a school of fish swimming beneath the turbulent waves.

“I love it,” Silver mouthed against Flint’s warm shoulder. “I’m buying it.”

“Well, it’s only fair, since you inspired it,” Flint shrugged and put brush to canvas again, ostensibly unbothered by Silver still clinging to his back.

“It isn’t true, you know,” Silver whispered, his hands tightening around Flint’s comforting, thick waist, while his fingers slid through the soft auburn curls of his lover’s belly.

“Mm?”

“What you said about existential loneliness being the human condition,” Silver said softly, dragging his front teeth gingerly down Flint’s spine, then kissing the vertebrae in turn. “It doesn’t have to be that way. I can show you, if you let me.”

Flint set the palette and the brushes down and turned, taking Silver’s face in his hands.

“You barely even know me,” he said, letting his lips gently brush against Silver’s forehead, his nose, then press against his mouth. “How the hell are we supposed to do this?”

Silver laughed into the tentative warmth of the kiss. “I’m not sure,“ he admitted. “But I’ll tell you what: I have an excellent personal assistant. I’m sure he’ll help us sort this whole thing out.”

**Author's Note:**

> I feel very blessed to be able to now share [this amazing art work](http://jadedbirch.tumblr.com/tagged/penis%20pj%20verse) by SAMHOUND with you guys <3


End file.
